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inconvenience were I to hang some of the laundry from your ropes?”
     
    Marshall laughed. “My dear Mrs Clarkson, it would be no trouble at all.” He looked pointedly to the foremast shrouds where a collection of seamen’s washing was currently flapping in the breeze. “Indeed, a change of clothing might even spice up the view.”
     
    Now that was pushing things too far. Chilton gritted his teeth; it was bad enough for Marshall to give permission for something that was not his concern, but to make lewd jokes about a lady’s laundry…  
     
    Mrs Clarkson did not seem in the least embarrassed however, or even annoyed; instead she laughed openly in a way that Chilton found oddly attractive.
     
    “Oh, you need have no fear. I am very used to being aboard a ship, and will not discompose any man with my undergarments. I was thinking of some bed sheets, towels and hangings, nothing more.”
     
    Marshall bowed to her gravely. “I am sure that whatever you wish to air will be most acceptable, Mrs Clarkson. And if you would care for any assistance in your quarters, I would be happy to oblige.”
     
    Their eyes met for a moment and Chilton had the impression he was suddenly witnessing a very private conversation. Then she thanked the marine almost formally before turning to Chilton, giving him a brief but sunny smile, and leaving the quarterdeck.
     
    Marshall strode slowly over towards Chilton and stood next to him for a moment. “Well,” he said, turning finally. “It appears I might not be quite so much at a loose end as I had thought.”
     
    * * *
     
    Crowley woke on a strange floor, and it took several seconds before he recalled the events of the previous night. His room was small and quite stuffy; enough light from the curtained window showed him that Doyle, Doherty and MacArthur were still sound asleep. Of Walsh there was no sign, but then Crowley would not have expected him to bunk in with his fellows. He pulled himself up and yawned. Doyle, to his left, murmured, but it was MacArthur’s eyes that opened, and a slight smile spread across the man’s face.
     
    “Slept past the dawn, Mike. We must be gettin’ old.”
     
    Crowley could only agree, and rubbed at his face; he certainly felt anything but young at that moment, and was not used to lying on quite so hard a surface.
     
    “Come on, lads, let’s be about.” MacArthur seemed far more supple, and was even standing as he brushed down the creases in his trousers and tucked in his shirt. Doyle moaned again, and Doherty grunted, then groaned, as MacArthur began to open the door against his legs. Light from outside flooded in, making them all pull themselves up, and Doyle began to cough heavily.
     
    “There’s a man who is missing his share of fresh air,” Crowley said, glad to see someone in a worse condition than he felt. Doyle rolled his eyes, but was too taken up with the spasm to comment. Doherty yawned, and nodded at Crowley.
     
    “He does this every morning,” he said. “Won’t get a sensible word from the old wreck until past breakfast.”
     
    “How long have you been staying here?” Crowley asked.
     
    “Just over a week. Place belongs to a cousin of the baker in Athy. When the time comes, he’ll be a godsend.”
     
    “When the time comes?” Crowley mused. “Sure in any uprising it is good to have a deal of bread about you.”
     
    “You wouldn’t be taking the Micky, now?” Doyle asked, before the coughing recalled him.
     
    “Not I,” Crowley assured them all. “But when the soldiers make their call there’ll be a bit more needed than the help of a baker.”
     
    “The man was one of the earliest to test the triangles,” Doherty said seriously. “It were Lake’s idea; he was the British general who took over from Abercromby. He tried them out in County Kildare first.”
     
    “Triangles?”
     
    “Aye, it is a marvellous invention; a large piece of wooden scaffolding that can be set on any green for all to see.